


Black and Silver

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 16:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5593261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin keeps his window open at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black and Silver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snartha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snartha/gifts), [victoriousscarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/gifts), [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts).



> Written mostly to prove that I could.

Maeglin keeps his window open at night.

Here, in his father’s house, he draws the curtains tight against the sunlight, pulls the shutters closed against the day. But at night Maeglin lets in the moon and the stars, in a way that he would never allow the sun.

He sits in the light through the window and works, careful but quick. Eöl cannot be allowed to know what he does with his nights; the moon is high still and dawn far off, but when he paints Maeglin is very good at losing track of time and very bad at finding it again. The brush still feels cool in his hand, and the silver paint glints even in the dim light.

Maeglin sits on his floor and paints angels in silver and white until the dawn comes, pale light slanting into his window.

He places the paintings out on the roof to dry in the sunlight where Eöl will not see them, closes the shutters, and huddles under the blankets.

 

xxxxx

 

He’s never left this house.

When Eol leaves at twilight he locks Maeglin and Aredhel in and takes the keys, and during the day when he’s at home they don’t dare to leave. So in all fourteen of Maeglin’s years, he’s never seen the sunlight - fading remnants of dusk, yes, and the pale beginnings of dawn, but never true day.

He’s never left this house, unless he counts going onto the roof to collect his paintings. But the night air through his window and the silver glow of moonlight is freedom to him.

 

xxxxx

 

The one night that Eöl forgets to lock the back door, they leave.

Aredhel is already packed; Maeglin takes six minutes to shove five days’ worth of clothes and his paintings into a backpack and go. The walking takes an hour and a half, two-point-six pencil drawings of time, before they stop at a large house a block away from the park. The man who greets them is tall, even taller than Eöl, but he doesn’t look as strong. 

“Irissë,” he says to Aredhel, and embraces her.

“Turukáno,” she replies, and leans in closer. It’s the first time Maeglin has ever seen her accept affection. “This is Lómion, my son.” She lets the man go and turns to Maeglin. “Lómion, this is my brother, Turgon. We’ll be staying with him for a while.”

Maeglin may never have left Eöl’s house before, but he knows full well that this means they’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future. He does his best to smile at Turgon, but doesn’t manage very well.

He’s out now, and he isn’t sure whether it’s a dream or a nightmare.

 

xxxxx

 

Turgon’s house isn’t like anything he’s used to.

He’s expected to sleep all the way through the night, and Turgon makes it clear that he’s okay for now but later he’ll be expected to attend Idril’s high school in a few months. He’s expected to socialize, and they don’t push but it’s made clear that he’s odd for preferring to stay in his own room.

His room in Eöl’s house was always dark. Maeglin’s room in Turgon’s house is cream and silver.

 

xxxxx

 

There is an angel on the roof next to Maeglin’s window.

He is very pale and very tall, with glowing white wings and silver hair, and he looks around Maeglin’s own age. He glints silver in the moonlight like the angels Maeglin still paints, sometimes - he has less need of them now. 

“My name is Tilion,” he whispers when Maeglin slides the window open. “What’s yours?”

He steps onto the chair by the window, then onto the windowsill, then out onto the roof next to Tilion. “I’m Maeglin.”

Tilion nods, almost imperceptibly - and then he is gone, faded into midnight and moonbeams.

 

xxxxx

 

Maeglin does not forget.

 _My angel,_ he calls Tilion in his mind. They see one another perhaps once a week - sometimes more, sometimes less. 

Maeglin does not speak of him to anyone. They already believe that something is not right with him _(“I’m really worried about him,” he overhears Turgon saying on the phone. “He doesn’t talk to anyone, Itarillë says not even at school, and he’s been staying up all night. His eyes have the darkest bags I’ve ever seen on a kid.”)_ and they may be correct.

But he never forgets. He has had exactly one friend in his life, and he will not forget him.

 

xxxxx

 

On one of the nights that Tilion does not come, somebody else does.

The front door creaks open _(probably Idril, she said she was going out a while ago),_ there are footsteps up the stairs _(no wait that’s too heavy to be Idril),_ the door opening with a soft _whirr, (oh god is that him) (oh god it’s him how did he find us)_

Maeglin screams.

 

xxxxx

 

He tells the story to the police three times.

Turgon speaks at the funeral. Maeglin does not.

He speaks in court, Turgon standing next to him. He does not cry (not in front of anyone, especially not in front of _him)._

It’s all blurry, after he’s said it a few times, like telling the details obscures them. (The details don’t matter. Aredhel is still gone.)

Eöl gets a life sentence. Maeglin wants to be glad about that but can’t make himself.

 

xxxxx

 

Tilion comes back two days after the trial ends. “I wanted to give you space,” he says, as if that’s any kind of explanation.

“Go away,” Maeglin says, and nothing else.

_Where were you, when I needed you? What’s the point of a guardian angel if he doesn’t show up?_

 

xxxxx

 

Maeglin doesn’t paint angels again.


End file.
